


You are Daffodils and Stardust and a Kingdom by the Sea

by spaceprincessem



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Derek Hale is a Nice Thing, Derek is a poety nerd, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Happy Ending, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Suicidal Ideation, Protective Derek Hale, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, soft boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28835043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceprincessem/pseuds/spaceprincessem
Summary: His fingers brushed against Stiles’, a breath of heat against skin, as Derek pulled the book out of place, carrying it over to the couch. Stiles followed, like Derek was a magnet, pulling him home. They sat together, Derek resting his feet against the coffee table, Stiles with his knees pulled to his chest. He was warm, but not, the icy claws still holding onto him, refusing to let go. Was it possible to feel this cold forever? Would Stiles have to set himself on fire to ever feelsomething again.“It was many and many a year ago, ” Derek’s voice cut through the fog in his brain, “In a kingdom by the sea.”Stiles felt his eyes beginning to close, the heavy weight of sleep causing his limbs to relax. Derek Hale was many things. Some good, some bad. But right now he was the voice inside Stiles’ head -his heart.He was slowly, carefully, chipping away at the frozen waste land that was Stiles Stilinski.Or five times Stiles felt like he was dying and one time he felt alive
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 18
Kudos: 241





	You are Daffodils and Stardust and a Kingdom by the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so a few notes here my lovely readers!
> 
> 1\. I went to post this last night and had everything ready and then ao3 froze and I might have had a breakdown, but I worked really hard on this fic so round 2 posting.
> 
> 2\. Special note about the non-graphic suicidal ideation. Stiles never wants to out right commit suicide, it's more that some of his tendencies in this fic lean in that direction and I wanted to be sure people were aware of that.
> 
> 3\. As with all of my fics this ended up being way longer and way more in depth than I meant it to be, but here we are. This fic started out with one, ONE, poem and then ended up with like thirteen works of literature good lord. I went ahead and linked all of the poems/quotes I used if you wanted to click on them and read them separately! You in NO WAY need to read any of the works to enjoy this story. I'll go ahead and lay out the works I used in order that they appear in the fic. Some will appear multiple times! 
> 
> _I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud_ by William Wordsworth, _The Waste Land_ by T.S. Elliot, _The Hollow Men_ by T.S. Elliot, _Annabel Lee_ by Edgar Allen Poe, _The Tempest_ by William Shakespeare, _The Divine Comedy_ by Dante Alighieri, _Paradise Lost_ by John Milton, _93 Percent Stardust_ by Nikita Gill, _Goblin Market_ by Christina Rossetti, _As You Like It_ by William Shakespeare, _Section 19 Song of Myself_ by Walt Whitman, _Romeo and Juliet_ by William Shakespeare, _Julius Caesar_ by William Shakespeare

1.

Stiles remembered the first time his mother took him to the library. His doe brown eyes widened as he gazed across the rows and rows of books lined on shelves of all shapes and sizes. It wasn’t some grand library, but to Stiles it felt like an entirely new world. There were two stories and a tiny cafe tucked into the corner. He was immediately drawn to the children’s section where there were colorful beanbags, displays with animals, a planet and stars mobile twirling from one of the overhangs, and a giant rug dotted with numbers and letters. Stiles was practically vibrating out of his skin as he grasped his mother’s hand tightly while she signed in.

“Mom!’ He shouted, excitedly, earning him a pointed glare from the man behind the desk. “Mom look!”

“I see, Little Mischief,” she hummed patiently.

He was only five years old, but he could still remember the scents of cinnamon and chocolate wafting from the cafe. He could feel the worn pages of the books turning over in his fingers as he and his mother read book after book, spending the entire afternoon on the neon green beanbag. He could picture the way the sunlight fell through the large windows, making the stars on the mobile twinkle. He remembers pouring over science books, learning about trees and rocks and bugs. He wanted to stay all day at the library and begged his mother to take him back as soon as she could.

Over the years Stiles would fill his mother’s faded, yellow daisy bag with as many books as she could carry. Claudia would buy a chocolate muffin from the tiny cafe and they would go to park, sprawled out on a tie dye blanket and read together under the shade of the giant sycamore tree. Sometimes when Stiles felt his eyes growing tired he would lay his head in his mother’s lap and listen to her read from her favorite poetry books. 

_[I](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45521/i-wandered-lonely-as-a-cloud) wandered lonely as a cloud _

_That floats on high o'er vales and hills,_

_When all at once I saw a crowd,_

_A host, of golden daffodils;_

_Beside the lake, beneath the trees,_

_Fluttering and dancing in the breeze._

Stiles didn’t really like poetry, but he loved to hear his mother read it. There was something in the way her voice would carry over the words, like each and everyone of them was a secret only she was permitted to tell. 

When the dementia hit their trips to the library became less frequent, until they stopped altogether. That was after Claudia had accidentally left Stiles at the library for nearly two hours. Stiles was nine years old, he was old enough to be alone, he didn’t understand why everyone had been upset. He had been so engrossed in the books he was reading he hadn’t even noticed until the nice, older librarian asked where his mother went.

_“It’s our son! It’s Stiles!” Noah had yelled, scrubbing his hands over his tired face. “You left him for over two hours!”_

His mother cried and cried and cried, holding Stiles against her chest, like she was afraid if she let him go something terrible would happen. She promised it wouldn’t happen again. 

But it did. 

They tried to protect him from what this disease was doing to her, tried to stop him from seeing, but Stiles knew she was fighting a losing war. When they confined her to a hospital room Stiles was determined that if she couldn’t take him to the library anymore then he would bring it to her. He convinced his dad of the importance of buying a chocolate muffin, of stuffing his mother’s faded, yellow daisy bag until it was bursting at the seams. On the good days he was allowed in. On the good days she would smile when she saw the peak of messy brown hair over the stack in his hand. On the good days she would tell him _we’ve already read that one before, Little Mischief_ , _it must be a favorite._ Stiles would slip a few books in that he knew they had read, like he was testing her. Sometimes she forgot. Sometimes she remembered. One book that always brought a smile to her face was that worn Wordsworth poem book. The cover had a close up of two, golden daffodils against a black background. There were a few different copies, with a few different covers, but this one was her favorite, so Stiles always brought it after the bad days.

Because how could she forget the host of golden daffodils?

“Stiles,” Scott scrunched his face as they turned down the poetry aisle, “the comics are on the other side of the library.”

“I’ve already read all of those.” Stiles responded matter-of-factly as he ran his finger along the row of books he hadn’t read yet, eyes searching for that familiar gold writing along a paperback copy.

“But they just got the new Batman in!” Scott argued as he whipped a mess of hair from his eyes. “And mom said I could check out that lacrosse book this time!”

“We’ll get there, Scotty,” Stiles hummed as he paused by the small _W_ marking where his book should be. “

“What are we doing over here anyway?” Scott asked as he pulled a random book from the shelf, flipping through it. “These look boring.”

“There’s something I have to grab to take to mom later.” Stiles said, frowning when he reached the collecting of _Wordsworth_.

“Oh.” Scott nearly dropped the book in his hand. He quickly shoved it back on the shelf before he turned, patiently waiting for Stiles to find what he was looking for. 

“I-” Stiles paused, taking a deep breath, “it’s not here.”

Scott moved forward as if he could possibly know exactly what Stiles was looking for. “Maybe it’s up at the front?” He asked with a small shrug of his shoulder.

Stiles wrung his hands together. He couldn’t leave without that book. Claudia was getting worse, _so much worse_ , and Stiles was the only one who could fix it. She had said - _screamed_ \- that he was killing her. He had to prove her wrong, to show her he was doing everything he could to help her. If she could remember Wordsworth and daffodils then she was okay. Stiles pulled all of his poetry books from the shelf, letting them crash to the floor in his haste. Scott jumped back, baby browns wide as he watched his best friend descend into an anxiety attack. Stiles wasn’t proud of it, but he couldn’t stop the sheer panic and dread that was filling him. He shouldn’t have placed the burden on Scott or Melissa, but his mom was getting worse and he couldn’t find that fucking golden daffodil poetry book!

“Hey,” a voice said, startling Stiles right out of his attack, “are you looking for this?”

Stiles’ eyes trailed over the faded flowers, the dog eared pages, and overly loved cover, until they moved up to the most beautiful shade of grey-green Stiles had ever seen. He swallowed a small lump in his throat as he watched a dark, thick eyebrow cock. Stiles just nodded his head, eyes still on the face of a boy only a few years older than himself.

“I just finished it,” he continued softly, like he knew Stiles was already on edge, “sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Thank you.” Stiles finally managed as he reached trembling fingers forward, taking the book from the boy.

“Sure,” the boy shrugged his shoulders like it wasn’t a big deal, “enjoy.”

He smiled and Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the small peek of bunny teeth before he turned and disappeared down the next aisle. He sucked in a deep breath only facing Scott when he realized his best friend was cleaning up the mess he had made.

“Dude,” Stiles whispered as he sank down next to Scott, lips brushing against his ear like he was afraid the older boy could hear him, “that was Derek Hale.”

* * *

When she forgot the wandering clouds and host of daffodils Stiles knew that he had failed. He was all alone, clinging to what brittle bone was left of her hand, lips moving over the words of the poem just to stop his aching sobs from taking control. 

_They flash upon that inward eye_

_Which is the bliss of solitude;_

The steady beat of her heart monitor slowed, until there was nothing, but a flat line. Stiles held onto her hand a little tighter, his voice cracking as he choked out the final lines

_And then my heart with pleasure fills,_

_And dances with the daffodils_

* * *

“I bet your mother is one of those clouds she loved to read about so much.”

Stiles just forced a smile, giving whoever this distant relative he couldn’t remember the name of was a small nod of his head. His mother wasn’t a cloud. She was a corpse buried six feet under ground. She was nothing, but dust and dirt. She was the lid closing over the coffin of his still beating heart.

Stiles waited until the last person left the house. He waited as he heard his father shifting around in the kitchen, looking for the bottle Stiles had hid underneath the sink, tucked behind the cleaning supplies. He waited until his father passed out in the big, green recliner chair, the bottle empty and discarded to the side. He waited in the hallway, eyes glued to the faded yellow daisy bag hanging from a key hook by the front door. He waited until he could feel his legs buckle and he stumbled towards the front door, slipping out as quietly as he could. 

The library was only a few blocks away and he could reach it quickly if he took his bike. It was a quiet afternoon, with just the familiar faces Stiles had grown to memorize over the years, lingering amongst the shelves. There was an older woman who sat by herself in a leather chair, pouring through all of those romance novels with the long haired guy on the cover. A set of twins who lived in the manga section, their eyes blazing over the words so fast Stiles wondered if they even read them at all. He could see the man who was around the same age as his father, the desk he typically occupied stacked with his favorite cookbooks. These people had become weird constants in Stiles’ life, things he could depend on being there no matter what happened. But now, Stiles just wondered when they would disappear too.

He was suddenly angry. So so so angry. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. How could the world, these people, _this place_ be the fucking same when she was gone. He stormed past the front desk, ignoring the call from the man who had glared at him four years ago. He knew the library like the back of his hand, every section, every shelf, was stored away in his memory, stuffed inside a lockbox where no one could take it away from him. This time his fingers didn’t gently glide along the spines of poets he hadn’t read yet. They were balled into tiny fists, his nails making tiny crescent moon prints against the palm of his hand. It didn’t take him long to find exactly what he was looking for. He tore the golden daffodil book from its home. He aggressively flipped to the poem - _her poem_ \- the paper cutting into his skin, leaving little pricks of blood to soak into the pages. 

He didn’t know when he began to scream - _to cry_. But he ripped her poem from the book, tearing it to shreds. He pulled the next one out he knew contained it too. His hands ached, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop until they were all gone. Until he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t until the ruined, blank ink smeared with blood looked back up did he fully realize what he had done. He didn’t feel better. He didn’t feel much of anything, except for the smallest feeling of dread pooling in his stomach that made him wish he had been buried in the ground with her.

* * *

2.

Grief.

Marin explained that everyone experienced grief in different ways. Some people got angry. Stiles understood that. Some people pulled away. Stiles understood that too. Some pretended like it never happened, shoving it deep, _deep_ , down until it couldn’t see the goddamn light of day. Some people let it consume them, swallow them whole until they were swimming in a never ending sea. Stiles understood all of those things, had felt them all before.

But now. Now he felt nothing, except this ever growing cold wrapping around his heart, clenching it in its icy claws, slowly weighing him down from the inside out.

He knew he shouldn't have thought about it, knew it only led to dark and dangerous places, but Stiles was a masochist these days and pain was the closest thing he could taste besides the freezing emptiness. 

_Was this how Allison felt in those final moments as Scott held her in his arms?_

This week they were learning about T.S. Elliot. Reading poetry seemed trivial after the things Stiles had seen. The things he had done. Marin said the easiest way to find comfort, to find meaning were in words. Words, Marin explained, is the simplest form of magic, but can often be the most powerful. Stiles wondered if Mr. Elliot had ever been possessed by an evil spirit before. 

“ _[April](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land) is the cruelest month _ ,” Lydia’s voice rang out over the classroom, sharp with power only she could wield, “ _breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain_.”

Stiles let her voice fade over the sound of the pounding rain against the window. Grief. They were all experiencing grief in different ways. Lydia was angry. Isaac had pulled away. Scott pretended like it never happened. But Stiles - _Stiles_ \- wasn’t just grieving for Allison. He was grieving for himself.

His body had been taken, his mind held prisoner. He had been beaten down, tortured, used as a weapon against his friends, his family, his pack. He had been ripped apart and put back together quickly, clumsily, with gaping wounds and disastrous cracks. He was trudging through the dead land, _the waste land_ , trying to figure out how the fuck to be whole again. Or, at the very least, feel like he wasn’t one of those brittled boned creatures, hollowed out, and left to fall in the shadow of a dying sun.

“ _And I will show you something different from either_ ,” Lydia’s voice was ringing, ringing, ringing in Stiles’ head, “ _Your shadow at the morning striding behind you / Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you_ ;”

Stiles felt like he could hardly breathe. He knew shadows better than anyone. They were old friends. The Nogitsune had unhinged its jaw, swallowing Stiles, and showed him exactly who he was. And that was the most terrifying part, right? Seeing the real you hovering in the darkness. Where your hands could be caked with blood and your smile could just twist up in the corners in the cruelest way possible.

“ _I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”_

Stiles felt his grief rise up the back of his throat, splashing against the pavement only to be washed away by the pelting rain.

* * *

Stiles knew his dad had tried to give up drinking years ago when he realized the only place it would take him was a hole right next to his dead wife. Still, the supernatural had a way of making one rediscover old vices just to cope with the nightmares, so Stiles knew there was a bottle of something hiding in the corner behind the washer. It was unopened and Stiles took that as a welcomed invitation. His father must have had good reason to drown himself in the brown liquid every day after Claudia had died. Maybe it made him feel something or maybe it just took away the emptiness. 

Either way Stiles was just hoping to wash out the iciness, the deep, bone aching chill that just wouldn’t let him go. It was cold for the middle of April, but the liquor made his cheeks flush as he stumbled through the depths of the preserve. He thought numbly of T.S. Elliot because when he couldn’t sleep he poured himself into the poetry books looking for those words, those magic words that Marin claimed would make him feel better. She had threatened to kill him, so maybe she wasn’t the most reliable source. 

_[We](https://allpoetry.com/the-hollow-men) are the hollow men _

_We are the stuffed men_

Stiles tipped the bottle back, grimacing at the taste. He was waiting for that moment, when the pain, the pool of absolute dread that sat like a brick in his stomach, the feeling of _nothing_ to disappear the deeper he got into the bottle. If anything he at least thought it would make it bearable.

_Shape without form, shape without colour,_

_Paralysed force, gesture without motion;_

He felt worse. How the fuck could he feel worse? He was told when you hit rock bottom the only place to go was up, and yet, he was sinking further and further away. 

_I could not_

_Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither_

_Living nor dead, and I knew nothing_

Stiles tipped backwards, his head reeling. He laughed, the feeling ringing shallowly in his chest. He was mixing up his poems now. Would Mr. Elliot be rolling in his grave because Stiles couldn’t tell the difference between _death’s dream kingdom_ and _the waste land_?

His head lolled in the grass, glazed over eyes focusing on the canopy of green hanging over him. He could just make out the shapes of grey clouds and he was reminded of a time when the only poems he could remember contained wandering clouds and golden daffodils. He lifted the bottle, frowning before he threw it as hard as he could. He couldn’t believe his father had wasted a year of Stiles’ childhood with one hand wrapped firmly around a bottle. But, this wasn’t about his father. This was about Stiles. 

Stiles the hollow man.

Stiles the stuffed man.

The sound of water crashing against rock distracted him and he rolled onto his stomach, catching the edge of a small cliffside just beyond the tree line. A few months before his possession he remembered Coach had made them run through the preserve. It was still hot, summer fading into fall, and he had stopped to catch his breath. The lake was on the other side of that cliff, a deep, dark staple of Beacon Hills that remained a popular spot at the height of summer. Stiles watched as four, older boys stripped down to their shorts, taking a running leap right over the edge.

_“It’s called cliff jumping,” Danny said as he came to a stop next to Stiles, “it’s supposed to be a real adrenaline rush.”_

As Stiles clumsily climbed to his feet he could hear a growl in the back of his mind telling him this was a _fucking terrible idea_ . He laughed at how much it sounded like Derek. The water was a terrifyingly shade of blue that could almost be described as black. Stiles licked his lips, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a tingling in his fingers, his body buzzing with energy and this, _this_ , felt like something. He quickly pulled off his plaid shirt, taking a few giant steps back before running full speed ahead.

_“Stiles!”_

He wasn’t sure if Derek’s voice was real or in his head, but he couldn’t stop as he propelled himself forward, throwing himself into the mercy of gravity. In the free fall he waited and waited and waited for the adrenaline to take over because he just needed to fucking feel _alive_ again. But there was nothing. Just the feeling that his end was coming sooner than he had planned. When he hit the water it was ice cold like his heart and his lungs felt like they were on fire as he screamed beneath the dark waves. His body felt like lead, his head light and dizzy as he tried to find his way up. This was a mistake. A terrible, horrible mistake because Stiles couldn’t find a way out. The voice that echoed in his head now was one that riddled his nightmares, plagued his waking moments, and always lingered in the shadow of his mind. Void’s laugh was merciless, never ending, knowing that it had finally won.

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper_

* * *

When he finally inhaled he braced himself for the water to drown his lungs, but he was met with the sweet taste of air, which sent him coughing and spluttering until he heaved up the dark water, the brown liquor from his father’s secret stash. The sun was shining now, but it felt too bright, like his brush with death set his nerve endings on fire and the living world was too much. The sound of a sharp inhale made him freeze and he slowly turned, still poised on his hands and knees to see Derek just a few inches away from him. His eyes were electric blue and there was a snarl poised on his lips.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” He growled.

Stiles could see him working his jaw, like he was fighting the need to bare his fangs as if there was an immediate threat of danger. Stiles kept silent because he didn’t really have a good explanation.

“You smell like a bar,” Derek continued when it was clear Stiles wasn’t going to answer, “and you ran full force over a cliff into one of the deepest lakes this side of the west coast.”

“What’s the deepest?” He asked.

“ _Stiles_.” 

And Stiles was suddenly struck with the way Derek said his name. Like it _pained_ him. He had caused Derek pain and he couldn’t quite figure out why because all he could feel was that frozen tundra around his heart. Ice in his veins that made Stiles believe he could never feel warm again. Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face because this was his _grief_. He was dealing with it. On his own. Just like everyone else. 

“I just-” he exhaled, trying to find the words, “I need to feel _something_.”

It sounded pathetic even to his own ears and he half expected Derek to tell him he was lucky to be alive when they had already lost two members of their pack. He was surprised to see the corners of Derek’s eyes soften.

“Come on,” Derek’s voice was low now, a steady hand on Stiles’ shoulder, “let’s get you some dry clothes.”

“I don’t want to go home.” Stiles choked out.

He didn’t want his father to see him like this. The past few months had already taken their toll on his old man and the last thing he needed to see was his son absolutely losing it.

“Okay, Stiles.” Derek replied quietly, fingers gripping Stiles in a way that could only be as tenderly. “Okay.”

* * *

Stiles had always enjoyed spending time in Derek’s loft, found comfort and safety just from the little things that made up Derek Hale. The miss matched coffee mugs hanging from metal hooks in the kitchen that the pack had collected over the years. The black and white canvas of the mountains hanging over the staircase. The worn, leather couch that Stiles had taken countless naps on during their late night research sessions. It was more than just a place. It was late night movies with friends. It was fighting for the last bite of take out with Derek. It was a quiet place to read, to sleep, to think when life was too overwhelming. It was a place you would never feel alone. 

He tried not to think about how Void had ruined this space too.

He pulled the hood of Derek’s sweatshirt over his damp hair, hugging it closer to his body as he tried to get warm. His eyes turned towards the bookshelf, his mind searching for an easy distraction. He wasn’t surprised that Derek had books ranging from historical fiction to an Agatha Christie detective series. He smiled softly as his fingers reached out for the spines of the poetry section. There were all the famous poets Stiles expected Derek to read like Poe and Cummings. He felt his breath catch in his throat, hand trembling as he pulled a well loved copy of a Wordsworth poetry book with golden daffodils on the cover out from its spot. He flipped to _that_ page without thought, the back inked words staring up like they had been waiting a long time to see him again.

_I wandered lonely as a cloud_

Stiles slammed the book shut, stuffing it back into place. A small clear of a throat made Stiles whip around, his heart pounding in his chest, but it was just Derek. Standing in sweat pants and a grey sweater, holding out two steaming mugs of tea. 

“Big poetry fan?” Derek asked as he walked over, handing Stiles a mug.

“Not really.” Stiles replied, shrugging his shoulders. He could hear the small skip in his heartbeat, knowing Derek could too. “My mom used to read her favorite poems to me growing up.” Stiles relented as he watched Derek quip an eyebrow.

“Mine too.” Derek said, his eyes moving to the books for a moment.

“I bet I could guess what her favorite poem was.” Stiles gave Derek a small, mischievous smile.

Derek sat his mug down on the coffee table then crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay, let’s see what you got.”

Stiles hummed to himself as he read over the covers, took note of the books that Derek read more often than others. He didn’t know Talia, but he knew Derek and somehow he had a feeling their favorite poem would be the same.

“ _Annabel Lee_ by Edgar Allen Poe.” Stiles answered as he tapped his finger against the Poe book where he knew the poem was hiding.

“Consider me impressed.” Derek chuckled. 

His fingers brushed against Stiles’, a breath of heat against skin, as Derek pulled the book out of place, carrying it over to the couch. Stiles followed, like Derek was a magnet, pulling him home. They sat together, Derek resting his feet against the coffee table, Stiles with his knees pulled to his chest. He was warm, but not, the icy claws still holding onto him, refusing to let go. Was it possible to feel this cold forever? Would Stiles have to set himself on fire to ever feel _something_ again. 

“ _[It](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44885/annabel-lee) was many and many a year ago, _ ” Derek’s voice cut through the fog in his brain, “ _In a kingdom by the sea_.”

Stiles felt his eyes beginning to close, the heavy weight of sleep causing his limbs to relax. Derek Hale was many things. Some good, some bad. But right now he was the voice inside Stiles’ head - _his heart_. 

He was slowly, carefully, chipping away at the frozen waste land that was Stiles Stilinski. 

“ _I was a child and she was a child,_ ” Derek read with a reverence Stiles had never heard before, “ _In this kingdom by the sea._ ”

“ _But we loved with a love that was more than love-_ ” Stiles murmured as he moved without thinking. He stretched out on the worn leather, his head finding a place against Derek’s lap. “ _I and my Annabel Lee._ ”

Stiles didn’t know it was possible, but he could _feel_ Derek’s smile, even as his eyes fully closed. He let his breaths rise and fall in rhythm with Derek’s words. He let Derek guide him from _the waste land_ , _the_ _dead land_ , from _death’s dream kingdom_. 

He let Derek take him, instead, to a kingdom by the sea.

* * *

3.

If there was one thing Stiles was absolutely positive of it was that he supernatural was going to be the cause of his ultimate demise. He had been dealt too many chances, too many _almosts_ that, eventually, he knew his luck was bound to run out. It was the price of running with wolves after all. Whether it would all catch up with him well into the second half of his life or get him before high school graduation he wasn’t sure, but he knew the supernatural would take him all the same. 

The closest he had come to thinking the cruel intentions of human nature had won happened beneath the plastic prison of an MRI machine. It was the threat of something biological, something Stiles couldn’t fight with plans or claws or a baseball bat. It was the monster from his childhood coming back for him because taking Claudia Stilinski just wasn’t enough. 

Sometimes Stiles wonders if everyone would have been better off had it been the dementia. At least he would have been the only casualty .

Stiles can still hear Scott’s words ringing in his head. _I’ll do something_. It was only the second time Stiles had ever been offered the bite. He hadn’t accepted it the first time and he wasn’t sure he would have taken the second chance either. Being a werewolf didn’t make you invincible, it just made you harder to kill. He liked being human, despite its drawbacks of fragility and weaknesses.

“You smell weird.”

Stile grimaced as he slammed his locker shut. He was running on four hours of sleep, three shots of espresso, and pure will alone this morning.

“I showered.” He replied gruffly, giving Scott a sharp look as he started down the hallway, his best friend running to catch up with him.

“That’s not what I meant.” Scott quickly amended, giving Stiles his best puppy dog stare.

Stiles rolled his eyes. Chemosignals. Right.

“So,” Stiles drew out the vowel as he readjusted his bag on his shoulder, “would it be the looming deadline of college applications? The crackdown on homework from literally every teacher in the school?” His voice began to rise, his hands flailing in the air. “The threat of our newest and most terrifying supernatural problem _The Dread Doctors_ or the fact that _other_ supernatural bullshit keeps popping up any moment we have the smallest chance to breathe?”

“Well,” Scott replied sheepishly, his cheeks reddening, “when you put it like that.”

“If I _don’t_ smell like stress and anxiety and whatever ever else emotion would be appropriate to describe the hell we’re living in then, yes,” Stiles gritted out through clenched teeth, “I would say that there might be some cause for concern.”

“I mean,” Scott frowned slightly, “you do smell like all of those things-”

“Gee, thanks, Scotty.” Stiles snapped sarcastically with a heavy roll of his eyes

“But there’s something else,” Scott continued like Stiles hadn’t talked at all, “something I can’t quite place.”

Stiles paused, turning to face his best friend fully now. Scott was eyeing him carefully, raking up and down his body like he expected Stiles to spontaneously combust at any moment. 

“I’m fine.” Stiles said on reflex. 

It was mostly true. They had a bad fight a few nights ago with a couple of rouge wendigos, but he hadn’t suffered anything too crazy. There was just some pain in his side, which must have resulted from a cracked rib or two. He could almost laugh at how absurd it was to consider that as a win. He’d snuck some of his dad’s higher prescription pills from the bathroom cabinet to deal with the pain. Regular pain medication just wasn’t working and Stiles just needed to get through the day. He hadn’t touched alcohol since that day he jumped. He was doing his goddamn best not to fall apart these days.

“You smell weird.” Malia huffed scrunching her nose as she passed Stiles before taking her seat next to Lydia.

Stiles clenched his jaw. He seemed to be the only person the wolves ever said anything to about his constant state of being. Yes, his heart rate was usually elevated beyond the normal level. Yes, he probably had the sour stench of anxiety and panic rolling off of him at any given moment. Yes, currently, he probably smelled like the goddamn pharmacy, but they didn’t need to remind him of it. He knew. He _fucking_ knew how much of a mess he was.

“Anyone else?” He asked, sending his tired, yet pointed glare in Isaac and Kira’s direction.

Isaac just snorted in response while Kira offered an apologetic smile. Stiles pulled the hoodie over his head, slumping into his seat. He grimaced as pain shot up his side, making his stomach churn. He probably should have gone to the hospital, but even thinking about stepping foot inside those walls was enough to send him into a panic attack. The last time he had checked in as a patient he had walked out as something much worse. 

“ _[Not](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/tempest/page_30/) a soul / But felt a fever of the mad, and played _ ” Stiles froze in his seat, his head snapping up as he recognized that voice, “ _Some tricks of desperation._ ”

Allison. Allison fucking Argent was standing at the front of the class reading from a overly used school copy of _The Tempest_ , her eyes dead set on Stiles’ face. She almost looked the same. Almost looked alive. But Stiles could see the cracks running across the pale skin, the darkness hooded against her eyes. He could see the gaping wound in her stomach, blood dripping from the tips of her fingers. Her lips were curled into a smile that made Stiles go cold, right down to the bone.

“ _Hell is empty_ ,” her voice was low, dangerous, like she was giving him a warning as her gaze moved towards the window, “ _And all the devils are here_.”

Stiles mirrored her movement, the unmistakable sense of fear clawing its way up his spine. It was suddenly dark outside, but nothing made Stiles’ heart stop like the sight of three, masked creatures, illuminated by a field light, staring right at him from the other side of the glass. It was the sound of metal gears ticking as they tilted their heads that made Stiles shiver violently, his side burning, like they had somehow set him on fire from the inside out.

“Dude,” Scott said, grabbing Stiles by the shoulder, shaking him from, _from_ , “are you okay?”

Stiles released a ragged breath as he looked between the girl at the front who was most definitely _not_ Allison and the empty lacrosse field right out the window. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, forcing a smile on his face. 

“As good as I can be, Scotty.”

He tried to ignore the burning beneath his skin and the haunting feeling of Allison’s dead eyes watching him.

* * *

“You smell we-”

“Don’t say it!’ Stiles snarled as he pushed his way into the loft, feeling the weight of the day bending him to his breaking point. “Don’t fucking say it.”

Derek snapped his mouth shut, eyes watching with mild curiosity and a touch of concern that Stiles _did not_ have time to think about as he collapsed on the couch. He grabbed the nearest pillow, shoving it over his face because suffocating was surely better than the ever growing pain in his side. 

“Bad day?” He heard Derek ask.

Stiles wasn’t sure _bad_ even began to describe the day he was currently having, but going into details about how he hallucinated Allison and the Dread Doctors would give him a one way ticket to being benched from any further supernatural activity. And that was the last thing he wanted, to be tossed on the sideline, to be useless when everyone else took on the danger. 

“Can we just,” Stiles began, removing the pillow from his face to give Derek a pleading look, “order take out and watch shitty reality shows?”

“Don’t you have homework?” Derek asked, but he was pulling his phone out of his pocket nonetheless.

“Ah yes,” Stiles frowned, “critically analyzing the works of Milton and Dante, the best way to spend my time.”

He didn’t want to tell Derek he’d had enough _devils_ to last him for the evening. Possibly a lifetime.

“You’ve been stealing your dad’s pills again.” Derek stated as he sat down next to Stiles, giving the boy a critical look. 

It wasn’t as harsh as the look he’d received when Derek pulled him from the water. But Stiles could see it. The subtle way Derek’s jaw ticked, like he was resisting the urge to bare his fangs, like his wolf sensed a danger that wasn’t there. The crinkles in the corner of his eyes that gave away the hint of pain in the sea of grey-green. Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat, begging his heart to stop the war drum in his chest. There was no reason Derek should have been looking at him like that. 

“I don’t have a pill problem if that’s what you're asking.” Stiles finally shot back. “I just needed something stronger than Advil, okay?”

“What you need to do is go to the hospital if you’re having pain severe enough to warrant whatever your dad has.” Derek argued, arms crossing over his chest in a way that read _alpha_ despite the tint of electric, blue.

“No.” Stiles replied sharply. “That’s the last place I want to go.”

“ _Stiles._ ”

Stiles wished Derek wouldn’t say his name like it mattered. _Like_ _he mattered._ Because he was the last thing Derek Hale needed. And he couldn’t understand how that hurt more than anything else he had endured. He tried not to think about Derek reading him his favorite poem to fight away the chilling, iron grip of _nothingness._

_And neither the angels in Heaven above,_

_Nor the demons down under the sea_

Stiles worried his bottom lip between his teeth, the metallic tang of blood against his tongue a familiar taste. Maybe if he could go back to that day in the library he could warn Derek to stay far away from him. Keep away from the boy with ice in his veins, a void for a soul, and darkness around his heart. Because Derek deserved someone better than whoever Stiles Stilinski turned out to be. If he lived that long, anyway.

_Can ever dissever my soul from the soul_

_Of the beautiful Annabel Lee_

“I’m fine.” Stiles could hear the crack in his voice, but he had said them so many times that they had to be true. Because the alternative was a monster Stiles wasn’t ready, may never be ready to face.

Derek leaned forward, warm fingers pressing lightly against the peek of pale skin. Stiles stiffened, watching the inky black snake up Derek’s arm, his lip trembling.

“Liar.” He said softly, pulling back after a moment. 

Stiles wanted to trace the invisible pathways left by heat between them. He wanted to tell Derek it wasn’t worth his time, his effort, his anything.

“You are,” Derek hummed as he flipped on the television, “worth it, you know.”

Stiles almost believed him.

* * *

In the blinking darkness he could feel them. Their eyes. The eyes of the dead. He could feel them watching, feel them waiting. He lurched from the bed, crawling on his hands and knees until he managed to stand on shaking legs. The eyes were still on him. The bile was quickly making its way up his throat as he stumbled into the hallway. He clenched his side, nails digging into skin as it burned, the sharp pain radiating through his stomach, his chest, seeping into his lungs, making it hard to breath. He nearly toppled down the stairs when he saw a dark figure standing in the hallway. 

The eyes were watching.

“ _[Through](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/19399-through-me-you-pass-into-the-city-of-woe-through) me you pass into the city of woe, _ ” with great horror Stiles realized it was Allison, “ _Through me you pass into eternal pain / Through me among the people lost for aye._ ”

“Stop it.” Stiles spat as he pressed forward.

He could smell the blood, hear the drip, drip, _drip_ of it splashing against the hardwood floor. He moved through her, like a ghost, shoving the bathroom door open. He nearly wretched all over the tanned, tile floor when he was met with the ice blues that faded into a milky white of Aiden’s eyes.

“ _Justice the found of my fabric moved,_ ” his voice carried the same weight as Allison's had, the same low, dangerous edge that sounded like a warning, “ _To rear me was the task of power divine / Supremest wisdom, and primeval love._ ”

“Shut up!” Stiles screamed, tears streaming hot and fast down his cheeks.

He tripped to the floor, passing through Aiden, but he could still feel their eyes. The pain had grown so much worse as Stiles heaved and heaved and heaved into the porcelain, knuckles going white from his tight grip. He felt a hand at his back, a familiar sense of love he hadn’t felt in a long time. A sob rippled through his chest. He knew _exactly_ who was behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around a look. 

“ _Before me things create were none, save things,_ ” she sounded just like he remembered, “ _Eternal, and eternal I shall endure._ ”

“Mom,” Stiles begged as he laid his forehead against the cool seat, “ _please_.”

Then he heard it. The metallic click of gears, the heavy footsteps pounding like thunder against his ears. The hand rubbing soothing circles against his back suddenly grabbed his arm, pulling him around and slamming him into the wall. There were three sets of those dead eyes. Three cracked and pale faces.

In a horrendous chorus their voices rose as one, “ _All hope abandon, ye who enter here._ ”

Stiles wanted to scream, but when he blinked the dead had vanished and in their place stood the Dread Doctors. They had finally come for him.

* * *

Stiles didn’t think the pain could get worse, but he woke up screaming, thrashing against the bindings rooting him to a metal table. His entire body felt like it was on fire, as if the very blood running through his veins had turned to molten, hot lava. He could barely focus on his surroundings, a dingy, dark room with medical equipment that was straight out of a horror movie. A blinding light blinked on over him, but his hands were chained by his sides so he forced his head to turn, catching a glimpse of the monsters that had taken him.

“Let me go.” He croaked, the pain overwhelming all of his other senses. The only thing left was fear. “Let me go!”

The Dread Doctors ignored him as they moved between their giant, glass cylinders filled with a dark green liquid and rotting corpses.

“Not yet,” he heard the leader say, “he’s not ready.”

Stiles clenched his teeth, desperately trying to stop himself from screaming again. He needed to get it the fuck together and figure out an escape plan. But all he could think about was the searing, hot pain making his body shake uncontrollably. What did it mean when it said he wasn’t ready? What the fuck did that mean?

“What did you do to me?” He asked when the pain became too much again. “What the hell did you do to me!”

The head Doctor turned, a giant syringe held in its hand. It was empty. Stiles pulled against his restraints, knowing it was no use, but the absolute panic and fear were taking over now. The Doctor gripped his arm painfully tight, turning it so Stiles’ veins were exposed.

“Stop!” Stiles cried. “Let me go!”

“ _[And](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/133195-and-that-must-end-us-that-must-be-our-cure) that must end us, _ ” it spoke as it dug the needle into his skin, “ _that must be our cure_.”

And god, Stiles could laugh because this was his fucking life, but there was nothing but tortured cries and pleas spilling over his lips. He watched the syringe slowly fill with a dark liquid, too dark to be his blood, but he didn’t know what else it could be. He must have been hallucinating, the fever and the pain winning out, because he was still human, still _Stiles_. How could he be anything else? 

And he screamed. And he writhed. And he felt like he was _dying_ a thousand times over as seconds passed into minutes and minutes surely turned into hours. They took more blood and Stiles was left helpless, wondering when they would just kill him already because no one, _no one_ was coming to save him.

Suddenly, the metallic clicks fell silent and all Stiles could hear was the most terrifying roar. But he couldn’t feel anything besides that white hot pain burning through his body, like he had once again been set on fire. His voice was hoarse from the effort, his throat rubbed raw, but his desperate cries still pierced the air, until he was left whimpering.

“Stiles!” There were hands cupping his face, but his vision was too blurred to make out who was holding him. “Christ, Stiles look at me, hey, look at me!”

Stiles tried to focus, tried to see, but it was all too much and he must be so close to death that it didn’t matter anymore.

“No, don’t do that!” Came a snarl in response.

“We need to get him out of here.” A higher pitched voice hissed.

Stiles felt the bonds around his wrist fall away, his shaking hands gripping soft fabric like his life depended on it. He didn’t know why it seemed so important, but he needed to tell someone, he needed them to know.

“Hell-” Stiles cried out, still trying to cling to whoever was holding him, “ _Hell is empty_ ,” he was crying again because it was the only thing that offered sweet release as the pain suddenly eased away and he was met with the grey-green eyes of Derek Hale, “ _And all the devils are here.”_

* * *

“ _Continuous as the stars that shine,_ ” it was the first thing Stiles heard as the waking world slowly breathed him back into life, “ _And twinkle on the milky way_.”

He felt like a lead brick, dropped in the water, and forgotten by the sun. He both felt a part from his body and trapped inside of it. His skin itched, like something was alive, humming with energy, with power, with resistance. 

“ _They stretched in never-ending line_ ,” and Stiles knew that voice, dreamed about it, found comfort and safety in it, “ _Along the margin of the bay_.”

“ _Ten thousand saw I at a glance,_ ” he murmured, shifting his weight in the hospital bed, fingers searching for something to hold onto, “ _Tossing their heads in sprightly dance_.”

“ _Stiles._ ” Derek said in that voice that shook Stiles to his very core. He closed the poetry book he was reading and Stiles couldn’t help, but notice it was the one with the golden daffodils on the front cover. 

“The Dread Doctors…” Stiles said as the room around him came into focus.

He was in the hospital, surrounded by flower printed, powder blue wallpaper and slightly scratchy, cream colored sheets. There was a canal perched under his nose and several wires and tubes entangled in his skin. Derek took his hand and Stiles hated how terrified and sad the wolf looked.

“We don’t know where they are,” Derek explained, “they disappeared right when we found you.”

“They took my blood.” Stiles said. “Why did they take my blood?”

Derek just shook his head, now he looked angry and Stiles could easily read the guilt murking the beauty of his eyes. “We’re not sure, Deaton thinks it might have something to do with your spark.”

“My spark?” Stiles asked.

“Deaton said it’s the only reason you’re alive.” Derek’s voice was low, but there was a pained whine at the back of his throat. “Stiles, your appendix ruptured, the pain you’ve been feeling this week has all been your appendix and last night it finally burst. You almost-” He cut off, his head sharply turning away, but he held on tightly to Stiles’ hand clasped between his own.

“Smell weird.” Stiles hummed as he closed his eyes, head nodding in understanding. “You all said I smelled weird.”

Stiles wanted to go home. He wanted to lay in his bed and not think about the hell he had just been through. He didn’t want dead eyes watching him or dark, supernatural creatures stealing his blood. He wanted to curl up against Derek’s warmth and listen to him read poetry until he fell asleep.

“I’m not leaving,” Derek stated firmly, “they’re not going to touch you again, I promise.”

“I’m fine, Sourwolf.” Stiles tried for a smile, but he just held onto Derek tighter.

Derek leaned forward, brushing a tear away from Stiles’ cheek with his thumb. “Liar.”

* * *

4.

“Now you’re just showing off.” Derek said with an amused smile as he watched bright, blue sparks shoot from Stiles’ fingers as they walked along the nearly empty campus together.

Stiles grinned as he extended his hand, palm facing up so that the sparks turned into electricity, humming pleasantly against his skin. He quipped an eyebrow causing Derek just to roll his eyes in return before the wolf let his fingers fall into the blue flames. 

“It’s warm,” Derek murmured, his hand hovering just a breath above Stiles’, “and it feels _alive_.”

“I think it likes you.” Stiles teased as the flames, the sparks, turned a soft pink, snaking up Derek’s fingers, moving to wrap around his wrist before fading away. 

Stiles could feel the heat between them, knew it would be easy to close the distance and intertwine their fingers. His fingers curled against his palm, hand dropping to his side instead. He and Derek were walking a thin line, a tightrope suspended above a treacherous fall. There were so many unspoken things between them, but Stiles hadn’t quite figured out what to say. Sure, he had survived high school, made it to graduation, and was on the path to _somewhere_ , but he wasn’t convinced that _somewhere_ was where Derek Hale should go. He was still a little broken, a little beat down, a little dark and dangerous. Still a little lost in the void.

He half expected not to see Derek at all when he left for his first semester. He was only two hours away, but it was a drive and if Derek showed up at all, well, then maybe it was just for pack purposes. He was surprised when Derek was sitting on his bed, reading one of his poetry books for class like he belonged there. Derek simply stated he missed Stiles and planned on staying the whole weekend. Since then he almost saw Derek more than he saw Scott and they lived together. 

And it wasn’t like the supernatural _wasn’t_ banging down on their door anymore. They still had long nights and near misses, but for the most part their lives carried on. Almost normal. Almost human.

“You’ll be home for winter break training with Deaton?” Derek asked as they continued their treak across campus.

Stiles nodded his head. When he wasn’t busy being a college student or running with a supernatural pack he was studying every single thing Deaton had given him. Researching his spark, learning to control it, preparing himself to become the pack emissary for whenever Deaton finally retired. It was exhausting work and the spark seemed to have a mind of its own, but it was a part of Stiles, a magic that made up his very soul.

_[We](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7450272-we-have-calcium-in-our-bones-iron-in-our-veins) have calcium in our bones, _

_Iron in our veins_

He remembered the first time he created something in his hands, a flickering blue flame that matched the electricity in Derek’s eyes. As the beta blue melted back into his sea of grey-green so did the flame.

_Carbon in our souls,_

_And nitrogen in our brains_

It was a warmth that felt more like life, a tiny, beating heart held carefully in the palm of his hand. It smelled of pine from the preserve, like it had come from the very earth they had walked over many times before.

_93 percent stardust,_

_With souls made of flames_

He remembered Derek watching in awe, like Stiles was something to behold as he whispered, “ _We are all just stars that have people names_.”

It was right then that the feeling of something deep and longing really took root. It had been steadily growing, sneaking up through the cracks in Stiles’ heart and mind.

“No Dread Doctor sightings?” Stiles asked as they reached his building. 

He wasn’t ready for Derek to go just yet.

“Haven’t heard or seen them since that night they took you.” Derek growled, his eyes flashing for a moment.

“That was nearly six months ago,” Stiles frowned, “maybe they accidentally fell off a cliff or something.”

Derek snorted, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “When have we ever been that lucky?”

“Always the optimist, Sourwolf.” Stiles was grinning again, clapping Derek on the shoulder. He cleared his throat, knowing it was getting late. “I should probably get started on my homework.”

“I thought you said you already finished.” Derek asked with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles chuckled nervously, “I may have lied just a little bit, but it was for a good cause!”

“Dinner at your favorite pizza place was a good cause?” Derek’s other eyebrow was raised now, but there was only amusement and the slightest hint of fondness in the wolf’s voice. 

“We were celebrating my interpretation of Christina’s Rossetti’s _Goblin Market_ making my professor’s newsletter for most thoughtful and in depth report he’s ever read.” Stiles explained.

“You’re such a nerd.” Derek teased.

“You also told me it was well written, so that must make you a nerd too.” Stiles shot back playfully, leaning closer, “But don’t worry, I won’t tell the pack that the big bad wolf secretly loves poetry.”

“You’re too kind.” Derek mirrored his movements, so that they were only inches apart. 

If he looked down he would see the abyss. If he turned around to face Derek he would surely fall. He wouldn’t drag Derek down into the void that waited below, the void that already had one hand clawed around Stiles’ ankle, the other precariously keeping the tightrope afloat.

“I’ll see you this weekend?” Stiles asked as he took a step that put him just out of Derek’s reach.

“Yeah,” Derek said with a look of understanding that made it hard for Stiles to breathe, “this weekend.”

* * *

“You’re going to mess up your manicure.” Stiles slurred before he felt another strong strike against his cheek. 

“I like to get my hands dirty,” Kate smiled all teeth as she pulled back her fist, slowly licking the blood splattered across her knuckles.

Stiles closed his eyes, trying to keep his gaze away from her face. If there was one person Stiles truly hated in this world Kate Argent would be it. This wasn’t the welcome he expected when he came home for winter break, but he shouldn’t have been surprised when it all went wrong. Stiles hadn’t begun to panic until he realized she had bound him with cuffs that trapped his spark in his chest. It raged and burned, threatening to rip right through his skin, the pain making him feel weak and exhausted. What truly terrified him was that she knew what he was. Kate was a user. An abuser. He could only imagine what she had planned for his magic.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been Kate’s prisoner, maybe a few hours, but she really knew how to make one feel right at home. His hoodie was in tatters, ripped and stained with blood from where her claws had done its worse against his skin. He was sure his face was littered with patches of black and purple, his lip swollen and cut from the rings glistening in the dim light above them. The sour taste of blood seemed permanently saturated on his tongue. The only thing that made it worse was his spark fighting against its shackles, desperately trying to heal, to help, to set him free. Stiles wanted to scream from the pent of energy eating away at him, but he couldn’t give Kate the satisfaction.

“I know this hurts,” Kate smirked, flicking her claws out, dragging them over his chest, “it was meant to. Your magic can’t stand to be contained.”

Stiles couldn’t stop the cry leaving his lips as she dug into his shoulder, hitting bone. He was on fire again, lava pumping through his veins as he bled out of yet another, gaping wound. His head lolled against his chest, eyes growing heavier, as black spots filled his vision. Kate roughly grabbed his cheeks, jerking him forward.

“No, no, no,” she cooed, “we can’t have that, not when the fun is about to begin.”

Despite the heat he felt overwhelming his body everything suddenly went cold as the metal walls echoed with metallic ticks that haunted Stiles’ dreams. He could see them, through half lidded eyes, three silhouettes moving through the darkness.

“They were working for you.” Stiles murmured. “This whole time they were working for you.”

Kate patted his cheek, letting his head fall back to his chest. The Dread Doctors stopped in front of a table, placing a large, metal tin in the middle. Kate carefully opened the lid, pulling out a syringe filled with a bright, green liquid. She held it in her hands like it was some delicate object. Stiles’ stomach turned at the sight of it.

“Do you know what this is, Stiles?” She asked as she turned towards him, a hungry and evil look in her eyes.

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, “ _[We](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44996/goblin-market) must not look at goblin men. _ ” He breathed, heart pounding terribly. “ _We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots._ ”

His words came out in a desperate rush, a plea as he felt the sting of his magic destroy him from the inside out. He knew why they took his blood. He knew why Kate was causing him so much pain. He tried to fight the tears, his eyes still shut tight, but there was no escape.

“A poet,” Kate laughed, light and girly, “how cute. Derek loved poetry too.”

“Shut up.” Stiles snarled, eyes snapping open.

“You know,” Kate mused as she rolled the syringe between her fingers, “he used to read poems to me all day long.”

“Stop.” He managed through gritted teeth.

Kate tossed her head back, letting her golden curls fall over her shoulder. “We would lie in the preserve on a blanket and Derek would read and read and read. I think his favorite poem had something to do with a kingdom by the sea.”

“Fuck you.” Stiles spat venomously. 

“Strike a nerve?” Kate asked innocently. “Or did you forget who had Derek’s heart first?”

Stiles had never felt such hatred and anger for a person before. For a moment he wished he were still _Void_ so he could rip her apart with his bare hands. He wanted to feel her bones breaking beneath his fingers, her blood caked under his nails. He wanted to watch the light go out in her eyes. He wanted to avenge the Hales. He wanted to destroy the person that had caused so much pain in Derek’s life.

“I have a poem for you, Stiles.” Kate said sweetly as she straddled Stiles’ lap, bringing the syringe down to his neck. “ _[All](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56966/speech-all-the-worlds-a-stage) the world’s a stage _ ,” she began, dragging the needle against his skin, “ _And all men and women merely players_.”

Stiles tried to pull away from her, but she wrapped her fingers around his hair, yanking hard and exposing his pale skin.

“ _They have their exits and their entrances_ ,” she continued, lips drawing close to his ear, “ _And one man in his time plays many parts_.”

The scream was clawing its way up his threat, a need for something, _anything_ , to escape his body. Kate moved her lips from his ear, kissing the soft, pale skin where his pulse point sat. She suddenly pulled back, maneuvering what looked like to be his phone from her pocket. Stiles barely said the word _don’t_ before Derek’s name appeared on the dial out screen. It only took two rings and Stiles felt a sob ripple through his chest.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Derek’s voice said in a tone that was half annoyed and half amused. 

Kate laid the phone down on the table next to them, placing a finger against Stiles’ lips to keep him quiet. “Oh, Derek, you should have known better.”

Stiles could feel the change, taste the electric in the air as he imagined Derek’s eyes flashing their infamous blue. The room practically vibrated from the roar on the other end.

“ _Kate._ ” Derek had never sounded more terrifying. “Where is he?”

“Your human?” Kate asked as she winked at Stiles. “Don’t you know that falling for humans is dangerous, Derek? Or is that a lesson that bears repeating?”

“I swear if you’ve hurt him-” Derek snarled, but Kate cut him off.

“I wouldn’t worry about your clever little spark,” Kate gripped the syringe tightly in her hand, “but, I would start worrying about you, Derek.”

Stiles finally released the scream he had been holding back as she drove the needle in. He felt the rush of blood, could hear it thundering in his ears, so much so that he almost missed Kate whispering a singular word against his skin. Derek was yelling over the phone, but Stiles couldn’t make anything out. His body began to convulse in the chair he was tied to. Unlike the fire of spark that burned beneath him everything was suddenly growing cold, like hell hath frozen over. It was a pain Stiles had never felt before as the ice tore through his very soul. He was sure his lungs would collapse from the sounds tearing up his throat.

“ _Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything_.” Kate jeered as she stood over Stiles before hanging up the phone.

* * *

_Cold_.

That was all he could feel. The cold earth beneath his fingers. The cold, biting wind against his cheeks. The cold, icy grip of something that didn’t belong, squeezing his chest until he couldn’t breathe. 

_Cold_.

It was a familiar feeling. One he hoped he would never feel again. Not this way.

_Cold_.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he couldn’t move. Maybe if he lied here forever the ground would swallow him up and never let him see the light of day again. 

_Cold_.

It was ironic, the place she had chosen to leave him. He could hear the waves crashing against the rocks. She had dragged him back to the place he had crawled out of years ago. _The waste land_ . _Death’s dream kingdom_.

If he closed his eyes then he could imagine he was somewhere else.

_To shut her up in a sepulchre_

_In this kingdom by the sea_

“ _Stiles_.”

It was the warmth, the only warmth he could feel, a small press of heat against his skin. He blinked open his eyes and even in the moonlight those grey-greens were unmistakable. The same color as the flame that had been in his hands.

“Hey,” Derek said gently, trying for a smile, but Stiles could see his lip trembling, “I’m here.”

“My spark.” Stiles whispered, still too cold, too heavy to move. “She did something to my spark.”

Derek carefully scooped Stiles into his arms. He wanted to protest, to tell Derek he was just dead weight, that he wasn’t worth the effort. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Derek murmured against the mess of his hair, “I’m sorry. God, fuck, _Stiles_ , I’m so sorry.”

Stiles buried his head against Derek’s chest. After all this time Derek still said his name like it was the most important thing in the world. 

Stiles wished he wouldn’t. 

* * *

5.

Wisps of steam rose from the water, splashing against the dark, ceramic dish Stiles ran a cloth over, hands working methodically to get it clean. Behind him he could hear the sounds of laughter, feet padding against the floor, furniture being pulled together. Stiles gritted his teeth, scrubbing harder until his knuckles began to crack. He hissed slightly at the pain, but moved onto the next dish. He was delaying the inevitable, knowing his friends would call over to him so they could start the movie. He wasn’t even sure why they wanted him near them at all. He had overheard them. He knew what they were thinking. Stiles was a master at hearing things he shouldn’t, he’d been listening in all his life. Just because he didn’t have the supernatural heightened senses didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of figuring things out.

_“You know what he smells like,” Malia hiss, pinching the bridge of her nose, “just like Vo-”_

_“Malia!” Lydia snapped._

_“What?” Malia growled, “We all sense it. Somethings not right and we’re all just going to pretend like nothing’s wrong?”_

_“Kate messed with his spark,” Kira said sympathetically, “we need to be supportive.”_

_“Just creeps me out, that’s all.” Malia added._

_“We’re going to figure it out,” Scott assured them, “Stiles is going to be fine. He’s not-” he cleared his throat, voice dropping low, “he’s not_ **_that_ ** _.”_

_“But he is something.” Malia countered and silence fell over the group as no one corrected her._

It wasn’t until he felt a sharp pain against his palm did he realize he had been gripping the plate so tightly that it broke in his hand. He watched the water run pink, the heat making his skin sting. He didn’t fucking ask for this. They didn’t know what it was like to feel like something had been ripped from you, used for someone else’s gain, controlled by those who only wanted to harm. But Stiles knew. It was a familiar feeling. The icy chill that never really went away. No one knew what Kate had done to him, but Stiles had a terrible feeling his hands would once again be covered in the blood of people he cared about.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek’s fingers were wrapping around his wrist, pulling his hand free from the water, “you’re hurt.”

Stiles wanted to wretch his hand from Derek’s grasp and scream at the man for saying his name like that.

“It was an accident.” Stiles said instead, watching as the crimson dripped to the floor. 

_Just like Allison_. 

“Come on.” Derek tugged him in the direction of the bathroom, away from the noise, and the watchful eyes, and scalding water.

Derek had him sit down on the closed seat as he rummaged around in his medicine cabinet for a first aid kit. Stiles couldn’t help the half smile curling against his lips as Derek set it down on the counter. He was pretty sure that Derek only kept it around for his benefit. Derek set to work, cleaning the wound, taking his time and moving gently.

“I’m surprised you can even stand being around me.” Stiles blurted out.

Derek looked up sharply, eyes narrowing and brow furrowing. “Why would you say that?”

Stiles just shrugged his shoulders. “Because I know what I smell like.”

“You smell fine.” Derek snorted, returning to work on Stiles’ injury. “You switched shampoo, though.”

Stiles huffed in annoyance. “You know what I mean.”

Derek ignored him and Stiles could feel his cheeks flushing with anger.

“So you don’t think I smell like Void?” He demanded. Just because the others wouldn’t say it didn’t mean he couldn’t. He had been the one possessed after all. “You don’t think I reek of chaos and danger and _death_.”

“ _[This](https://iwp.uiowa.edu/whitmanweb/en/writings/song-of-myself/section-19) is the meal equally set, _ ” Derek began, wrapping gauze around Stiles’ hand, “ _this the meat for natural hunger_.”

“Derek…” Stiles whined, trying to pull his hand away, but Derek gripped it a little tighter, tying the bandage off, his lips still murmuring the words of the poem.

“ _This is the press of a bashful hand_ ,” his thumb brushed over the covered wound, the faintest color of black inking up his veins, “ _this the float and odor of hair._ ” 

And beneath the harshest cold, the icy walls Stiles felt the heat, the warmth of Derek Hale, setting him ablaze like nothing else had before. The fire wasn’t consuming in a way that made him wish for the end, but it felt like that tiny flame in his hand, crafted from the magic in his very bones. Stiles could count the lashes fanning Derek’s eyes, watch as his lips parted ever so slightly, like an personal invitation meant for Stiles only. He knew - _he fucking knew_ \- the words that came next, the lines that Derek hadn’t spoken because he was always waiting on Stiles to follow.

_This the touch of my lips to yours,_

_This the murmur of yearning_

“You’re not chaos or danger or death.” Derek said.

“How do you know?” Stiles asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because I do.” He answered simply before climbing to his feet. “Come on, I can hear them starting the movie without us.”

Stiles waited until Derek had disappeared into the hallway before releasing the shuddering breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“ _This hour I tell things in confidence_ , “ Stiles said quietly to himself, “ _I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you._ ”

* * *

He should have stayed back at the Jeep, far from the fight, far from the danger. Except, really, he _was_ the danger. He couldn’t ignore the pull, like some was yanking on a chain locked around his chest, forcing him to follow. He dragged his feet against the dirt, fingers ripping into bark as he fought to stay away from the battle. He closed his eyes, trying to focus all of his energy on the flickering flame in his chest that had been trapped by something sinister, thrust into a frozen cage. He felt sick as he stumbled into the clearing, falling to his knees as a hand gripped his shoulder, nails trailing along his collarbone.

“Stiles,” Kate purred, lips close to his ear, hair falling across his neck, “so glad you could join us.”

“Don’t touch him.” Derek snarled, his eyes flashing a bright blue. A deadly warning.

Stiles could hear the rest of the pack fighting with the berserkers, see their shapes outlined in the faint moonlight. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t fucking move because his body felt heavy, like she had filled his veins with lead.

“Wouldn’t you say,” Kate purred, fingers curling through his hair, “we know each other pretty well by now, Derek?”

“I’d say I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.” Derek snapped, but he was rooted to his spot, eyes following Kate’s every move.

Stiles felt a sharp pain jolt down his legs, forcing him to stand. He gritted his teeth as Kate draped herself over his shoulders. Her breath was hot against his neck as she gently bit down on his ear. Stiles could feel Derek’s growl reverberating in his chest.

“Does this bother you, Der-Bear?” Kate sneered. “I told you falling for another human is dangerous.”

There was a small charge of electricity at the base of his spine, worming its way up an icy path, shooting through all his nerve endings. The chain around his chest exploded into a thousand, tiny invisible threads beneath his skin, like he had become a puppet and Kate the master. He could feel it. The hunger for blood, the need to destroy, to do whatever it took until the world around him had burned. 

He could feel it.

The chaos and danger and _death_.

“ _[These](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/romeojuliet/page_132/) violent delights have violent ends.” _Stiles muttered as he clenched and unclenched his hands. He tried to direct his power, his magic to strip him from Kate’s hold, but the harder he tried the more it hurt.

“Ah,” Kate smiled, pinching his cheek, “just like your wanna be alpha and his silly little poems.” She turned her smile towards Derek, “But, I have something just for the two of you.”

Derek’s hateful gaze moved from Kate to Stiles, his eyes soften, beautiful features twisting in pain. Whatever was about to happen they both knew they were powerless to stop it.

“ _Stiles_.” Derek said so quietly it was a wonder Stiles had even heard him at all.

“Either you will kill your human, Derek,” Kate said, “or he will kill you.”

“Fuck off, Kate.” Stiles finally managed to say, his voice cracking from the pain overwhelming his body.

Kate’s lips were at his ear again as she whispered, “ _[Havoc!](https://www.sparknotes.com/nofear/shakespeare/juliuscaesar/page_122/)” _ She took a step back, her smirk shooting in Derek’s direction, “ _And let slip the dogs of war.”_

Just like that the ice shattered, his spark taking control, pushing Stiles into the darkest corners of his own mind. His cries were lost in the nothingness as he watched himself move forward, lightning crackling from his fingers as he aimed a deadly blow at Derek. He was reminded of when he had plunged into the depths of the lake, desperately reaching for a surface he couldn’t find as an unforgiving current dragged him further and further below. 

“Stiles,” Derek pleaded as he retreated, careful to avoid the boy’s attacks without retaliating in return, “this isn’t you. You have to fight whatever Kate’s done to you.”

Every time he screamed Derek’s name it was like his lungs would fill with water. This wasn’t him, but it was his body, his hands, his _spark_ and Derek couldn’t outrun him forever. When the pack circled him he easily took them out. There was only one thought Kate had drilled into his head. 

_Kill Derek Hale_

Their dance seemed to last an eternity as Stiles slipped deeper into the void, his own fire slowly turning him to ash. It wasn’t until he felt _his_ hands around Derek’s neck, _his_ legs pinning the wolf to the ground, _his_ magic ripping the light from those grey-green eyes did the darkness finally let him see exactly who he was. 

Stiles the hollow man.

Stiles the stuffed man.

Stiles the _monster_.

“Just kill me.” It let him beg, “Please, Derek, don’t let me hurt you.”

And even as his magic tore through the wolf, burning him from the inside, giving him a taste of the destruction of the Hale line, Derek still said his name like it was the only goddamn thing in the universe that ever mattered.

“ _Stiles,”_ and Stiles felt like he could die from that one word alone, “ _It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea_.”

As his hands squeezed tighter, Derek’s last breath curling in the air, a different kind of fire filled his drowning lungs. It was warm and alive and it was _Derek_ . And Stiles turned, finally releasing _his_ chaos, _his_ danger, _his_ death.

“ _These violent delights_ ,” he snarled as he moved against Kate, “ _have violent ends_.”

When it was over he held Derek in his arms, the faintest beat of the wolf’s heart the only thing keeping the world from burning to the ground. Stiles leaned his forehead against Derek’s, tears crashing against his stubble cheeks.

“You were wrong,” Stiles murmured, a sob threatening to rip through his chest, “I am all of those things. I am _nothing_.”

Stiles was torn in two as he screamed, his fingertips crackling with blue sparks. And he took the _nothingness_ , the abyss, the ice cold shards of his broken heart, and pulled them from Derek’s unmoving body because he would walk through _the waste land,_ he would crawl through _death’s dream kingdom_ forever if it meant Derek Hale could be saved. It seemed impossible to feel nothing and everything. The pain was inhuman, unbearable, but Stiles took more and more until he heard that one word.

“ _Stiles_.”

And if it was the last thing he ever heard, then maybe it was enough to carry him through the hell he had damned himself too.

* * *

+1

Stiles looked out over the cliff, the dark depths tempting him to jump, as if it would open wide, welcoming him home. Falling was easy. It was just one step, wrapped in the cruel embrace of gravity, carrying him down to the place he knew he belonged. 

Grief. Everyone experienced grief in different ways. 

But Stiles was angry. And withdrawn. And pretending like it never happened. And letting it fucking consume him until he could’t breathe. 

He was everything. He was nothing.

“Don't,” Stiles murmured, “please don’t say my name like that.”

When he turned he could see Derek standing just a few feet away, a softness to his face Stiles felt like he didn’t deserve.

“Like what, Stiles?” He asked.

“Like I’m fucking worth anything!” Stiles yelled. “Like I’m something other than this great, big terrible _nothingness_ that ruins everything I touch.”

His chest was heaving, cheeks flushed as he realized he had drawn within inches of the man, just a breath apart from each other.

“ _Stiles_.” Derek said, his hand reaching in the space between them.

Falling was easy. Except it had always been Derek’s gravity Stiles had stepped into. He leaned forward, the warmth of Derek’s palm against his cheek causing his heart to race wildly.

“Despite everything I’ve done,” he said, “everything I am, you still say my name like that. Why?”

Derek smiled, “Because you are daffodils and stardust and a kingdom by the sea.”

And if he didn’t do it now he would never do it, so Stiles closed the distance between them, letting gravity carry him to the endless depths of Derek Hale. Like the tiny, beating heart of magic held in his hand Stiles felt something he hadn’t in a long time. 

Stiles felt _alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, if you have made it this far thank you so much for reading! I love 5+1 things stories. They're so fun to write and this story just came to me and then spiraled into whatever I ended up writing. Please let me know what you think!!!!


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